


The Deadly Bee

by Arkee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU: Deadly Sherlock, Alternate Universe, Angst, Arkee is a bad person and she likes cursing the characters through fanfiction, He wishes that he could touch stuff and transform it in gold instead, John Watson is clueless, M/M, Mike Stamford is a BAMF, Sherlock being lonely because of his nature, Sherlock is a bee; not literally though, Sherlock is a killer while not wanting to be, Sherlock isn't asexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkee/pseuds/Arkee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a man with a curse. Every living creature that he touches, dies, except his brother, Mycroft, who'll just suffer like if he were stung by a bee.<br/>Sherlock manages to live while avoiding touching anyone. Few people know that he has a deadly touch and how lonely is his life because of it.<br/>Because of problems with his landlord, he has to move and needs someone to pay half of the rent for the new flat. Whoever is going to live with him, one rule shall prevail: they're not allowed to touch him. How much time can one endure living with another without a single touch?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deadly Bee

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this idea appeared, so don't ask me.  
> It's quite based on myth of King Midas, the king which would transform everything in gold with a single touch.  
> Although, here, Sherlock won't die of hunger because of the golden touch turning food into gold. Instead of a golden touch, he got himself a deadly touch. (However, fruits don't seem to rotten on his hands, awkwardly.)  
> Whenever he touches an animal or a fresh plant or a person, the subject dies immediately.
> 
> And yes, I can be a cruel person with cruel AUs.

Sherlock Holmes has a touch of death.

He knew about this since he was only seven years old. One afternoon, he was playing in the garden, pretending to be a pirate. Then he found a hedgehog. The little fellow was shy. The small boy never had seen an animal like this one in his life and curious as he was, decided to take it home to show it to his older brother and parents.

However, when he touches it, it dies in his hands. The incident scares him so much that he heads back to the house, crying. Mycroft, his old sibling asks him what happened. Sherlock says that a little animal stopped moving when he touched it. The elder Holmes brother proceeds to hug his little brother to comfort him and say that’s not his fault. Sherlock didn’t want to touch him, fearing that the same thing that happened to the hedgehog could happen. It, however, doesn’t happen. He gave in and cried for a whole half hour.

It doesn’t happen again until he’s sixteen.

He has a fight with his father. Sherlock never agreed with him, never liked him and at sixteen, when he decided to tell his family about his sexuality, his father stood up angrily and shout at him. His mother stared down at her food on the dinner table. Mycroft already knew about it. He never saw it as a problem. He just sits there and eats his dinner, while their father can’t accept it, seeing it as some kind of terrible disease.

“I knew it. I just knew it when you started to pass even more time with that lad. I said that it was never going to be a good thing. He corrupted you. My little boy… I had so many expectations for you. Oh God. I’m not raising a queer!” He shouts.

“You can’t say anything about Victor! You barely know him! You can’t order me around. I’m sixteen years old and I know what I want of my life, thank you very much.”

“You won’t have it. We’ll move. You’ll never see this lad again. You’ll going to be a proper man. I’ll fix you.”

“I’m not broken!” He screams, angrily, pushing his father as he tries to get out of the dinner room. Sherlock is crying, revolted with how much sick can be his father about the topic.

His father never liked his friend, the small Victor Trevor. The idea of having Sherlock falling for a bloke, especially Trevor seemed to be unnatural and forbidden. Unacceptable. To him, being homosexual was the end of a man, the worst disease in the world and that something like that would never happen in his perfect family.

But it was happening, as it already happened on so many other said perfect families.

However, when Sherlock pushed him, something unusual happened. His father’s eyes turned weirdly, as if he were in pain. Then, he stopped moving and fell to the ground, on his back, mouth still opened like if he were going to curse his son once more, eyes staring up painfully.

The young Holmes quickly stepped backward, bringing his hands to cover his mouth to prevent a scream to come out.

Then he realised what happened when he was seven. His hands could drain the life out of the living creatures.

The sound of the body falling to the ground caught the attention of both Mycroft and their mother. While the woman runs to her husband, the elder Holmes brother tries to reach for the shocked Sherlock.

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t touch me! Mycroft, stay away from me! It’ll happen to you too. I don’t want it! I don’t want to be a monster…” He cries more.

Mycroft still tries to reach him. However, as his hands touch his younger sibling, it feels like being stung by a bee. Sherlock runs away to his room. The remaining one of the Holmes brothers finds it to be difficult to comfort his desolated mother.

 

* * *

 

The doctors don’t have a cause of death for their father. The papers only say “died under unknown reasons at his residence”.  The widow is confused. Sherlock doesn’t let his mother touch him since it happened. She doesn’t even try to get near him, anyway. Mycroft is the only one who tries, under the lad’s protests. It hurts like a bee sting every time that he touches his younger brother. He starts developing a theory about what is happening.

After the funeral, the smart elder Holmes brother tries something. He takes the flower that was in his lapel and offers it to Sherlock.

“Here, hold this. I want to test a theory.”

As the confused teenager grabs the flower, it dries almost immediately.

“It died. I don’t know why you insist in doing this. It hurts to see the living forms dying. We both know that it’s my fault. It’ll keep happening. Not to you, apparently. You only feel pain. I wonder why.”

“Sherlock…”

“I killed our father, Mycroft. You should hate me for this as much as I hate myself.”

“You didn’t… Listen. Whatever is doing this to you, we’ll find a way to stop it. It’s going to be okay.”

“No, Mycroft, it’s not going to be okay and we both know this.” He turns and walks away.

 

* * *

 

In the following day at college, he breaks up with Victor. He excuses himself, saying that his family was moving, that they wouldn’t be able to see each other and that he couldn’t deal with a long-distance relationship. He tries to stay away, in an attempt of not touching the other bloke. Then, Trevor makes the fatal mistake of touching him.

As Sherlock runs away and finds a way to skip the remaining classes for that day, he cries. His heart is broken in a thousand of little pieces, resting silent in the ground at the boy’s bathroom, with the body of his ex-boyfriend.

 

* * *

 

He leaves a note to Mycroft, saying that he’s going to leave and that he should look after their mother. It upsets her when her older son tells that Sherlock decided to leave them to live by himself.

But even since he was a child, he always upset their mom. So, it wasn’t unnatural, after all.

 

* * *

 

After he grows, Sherlock Holmes becomes, sort of, a particular detective. But, differently from the common particular detectives, the police come after him to help them to solve cases. In some years, he becomes the master of deduction, being able to crack the toughest crimes, to point the murderer, the thief or any other criminal with terrifying accuracy. He sees through people as nobody else can. He decides that he’s not a particular detective after all, but a consulting one. The only one consulting detective in the world. Sherlock created a job. He feels quite proud of himself.

Yet, he doesn’t touch anyone but the dead.

Lestrade, a detective inspector from Scotland Yard knows about it. Sherlock told him after they met, years before. Anyone else from Scotland Yard thinks that he’s a freak and they don’t want to be near him. Only a few people know, including Mycroft, an old client, a bloke named Mike Stamford and the gentle lady that works at the morgue at the Bart’s Hospital, Molly Hooper.

One day, at the Bart’s laboratory, Sherlock complains about how difficult it’s to find someone who would agree with a flat share. He had a fight with his landlord and feels the need of moving before the man has the urge of punching him and dying under his touch. An old client, Mrs Hudson has a flat available for rent, but even that the good mistress makes a good price, he wouldn’t be able to pay by himself.

Mike Stamford sits on a corner and drinks his coffee, as Sherlock speaks.

“Who’d want me for a flatmate?” He wonders. “The monster that can kill with a touch? It’s almost the same as allowing a child near a lion.”

“You’ll probably find someone.” Mike tries to comfort him.

“Then they will leave me in the next week, when I manage to kill their beloved pet. It’s not going to work.”

“It will. Someday. Well, I’m going out. I might be better later, if you need to talk. I know that it’s tough to live like this.”

Mike leaves and Sherlock goes back to what he was analysing in the microscope while thinking _No, Mike, you don’t know how it is. Nobody knows. Nobody really knows._

 

* * *

 

Mike Stamford is sitting at one of the park’s benches. He feels sorry for Sherlock and how he never got to have a proper friend during his whole life. It’s been two hours since he left the bloke alone to whatever case he was working in.

Distractedly, he eats a sandwich and drinks another coffee. He barely slept the previous night, making notes about his students’ developments until late hours.

Then it happens. It just happens.

An old friend, from the times when they were studying, is walking through the park, using a cane to maintain his balance. Although that a lot of time passed since their young days, he’s still recognizable. Mike heard that he got shot, but didn’t know that he was already back to London. He stands and goes after him.

“John! John Watson!”

The man stops and turns around. He has a hard time remembering who the other man is.

“Mike Stamford. I know, I got fat.”

“Mike! Wow, that’s a long time, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“Got shot.” John simply answered.

They sit on the bench and talk about what each other had been doing in this whole period of time that they went through without seeing each other for a pint after the medical classes. John Hamish Watson, as it was his whole name, was on the army as a doctor. He had his bad days as a soldier too and that was how he got shot in the left shoulder. When back to London, he seemed to have acquired a limp. His therapist always told him that it was because of the war or something. And also the tremors in his hands, remains of a war that still haunted him in form of nightmares.

“Are you still at Bart’s then?” He asks, noticing how his mate hadn’t spoken about what he did after John left for the army.

“Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them. What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?”

“I can't afford London on an army pension.”

“Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know.” Mike jokes. He reminds the days when John got to sleep anywhere that he could.

“Yeah I'm not that John Watson.”

“Couldn't Harry help?” Stamford suggests. Despite her recent drinking habit, Harry would be a good person to live with. Well, despite her recent drinking habit.

“Yeah, like that's gonna happen.”

“I don't know. You could get a flat share or something.” Another suggestion. Maybe good this time.

“Oh, c'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?” Mike looks at him and laughs at the coincidence. “What?” John asks, confused.

“Well, you're the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who's the first?”


End file.
